


World War Reunion

by musicalsmarvelandmore



Series: Newsies (Mostly Sprace) One Shots [7]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Reunions, Spot Conlon is Bad at Feelings, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:35:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25620673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicalsmarvelandmore/pseuds/musicalsmarvelandmore
Summary: Years after Race vanished, Spot is in a bar ready to ship out the next day while he remembers the boy he lost.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Newsies (Mostly Sprace) One Shots [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593484
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	World War Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> This is an extremely loose sequel to part 6 in this one shot series- Not Dead, Still Gone. That being said, each part can stand alone without spoilers.

Spot Conlon may have outgrown being a newsie, but he hadn’t outgrown his nickname. Unfortunately, he hadn’t grown any taller than he had been for most of his teen years.

He hadn’t forgotten either. There were some things that were just too hard. Sure, most adults had gotten a public education on how to read, but he had worked, learning from the newspapers he was hawking in lodging houses with other boys. He had learned. Maybe not a formal education, but Spot had learned what he needed to know about life on those streets of New York.

Brooklyn was his home, in his heart, but it was lonely, being alone in a thriving city. Spot had left the newsies earlier than some of the boys left, but the memories were painful at lodging, after-

Well, he didn’t think about that anymore, of those events at the turn of the century. Nearly half a lifetime ago. The ache in his heart made it feel just like yesterday. That pain never fully left someone.

Even though Spot was a Brooklyn boy, born and raised, he had to admit that there was a sense of relief, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. When you’re in love with someone, every little thing reminds you of them- the alley where you kissed the first time, the thought of raising money to buy them some gelato, anything they’d find funny. When you’re dating that person, it’s wonderful, being reminded of the person you fell in love with.

When they’re dead, and have been for years, those constant reminders aren’t as pleasant.

That day had been the last day of Spot’s old life. A part of him had died when they never found Race, and that had never recovered. Race wasn’t the only one dead, and sometimes it hurt to think of the other boys who had been taken far too soon- Pair, drowned; Wally, hit by a carriage; Kipper, stabbed in an alley; the countless boys who died of countless diseases- but even though Spot felt responsible for their deaths, those had faded into a dull ache, one that he sometimes took out and poked at, just to feel something. Race, Race was different. He had always been different. It was just as painful now as the day they had given up searching, declaring that Racetrack Higgins was dead.

He had never moved on, but that was okay. It had to be okay.

Now, he had a shiny set of dogtags, hanging down over Race’s crucifix that was the only physical thing Spot had to remind him of Race. Not as if he needed it, since even now, half his life later, everything made him think of his lost lover. But since the crucifix was the only thing he could touch and think of Race, he’d take it.

Spot missed his reputation, but life kept moving on past the newsies, and he definitely wasn’t known as the most feared newsie, or most feared anything, in New York anymore. Now, he was a soldier. As a teen, Spot was always the leader. Now, he did what needed to be done. He might as well. Even after the newsies, Spot hadn’t done anything. It was the honorable thing to go fight the Germans. Most of the newsies were orphans or runaways, and he didn’t want any kid being put through the shit he did.

Now, after six months of training at a base in the US, he was set to ship out to France in two days. He didn’t know his unit assignments yet, but he didn’t really care.

Spot sat at a bar, glaring at the giggling girls hanging off the arms of soldiers. They were loud, and he’d rather drink in peace. His glare had been the one thing that had survived from his childhood, and it served him well, even without the reputation to back it up.

The men he had trained with were glad to take the edge off. Spot vaguely got that, but he shut that idea down. He couldn’t go down that path. Thinking of his childhood hurt too much, thinking of the times that the newsies had to let loose to get the edge off the stress. It was life or death stress either way.

If Spot imagined hard enough, he could almost imagine what had happened many times back then, Race sitting down the row of seats from him, having a few drinks, occasionally catching Spot’s eyes and winking or wiggling his eyebrows, since they both knew what would come later. He’d be enjoying himself, holding court amongst the many boys he knew and causing them all to laugh.

Spot blinked. Race wasn’t there, obviously. Just another soldier, bathing in his loneliness just like Spot. Spot turned his head back around and resumed glaring at his glass. Half full or half empty, it didn’t matter.

The man he had been looking at while he thought of Race had gotten up, and Spot wondered if he had noticed. Spot wondered rather he himself even cared about that. A fight might help him get his head screwed on straight for a little while longer, so he could pretend to be normal, to fit in and be a person who Spot was never sure actually existed.

Spot stared ahead. He wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t want a fight. He had gone down that route before, and it had never worked out. It never made him feel any better. Instead, it just made him even more aware of the gaping hole in his heart.

The man slid onto the bar stool next to him. Spot still didn’t look up. He could feel the other man’s eyes staring into him, burning a hole into his side, but he refused the temptation to look up.

“I’m not really in the mood for company,” he growled at his new neighbor.

The man’s voice was quiet as he spoke, just on this side of familiar. “You from Brooklyn? I’s, uh, I recognized the accent. Sounds like ho- someone. Someone I used to know.”

Spot nodded. “Yeah. Born ‘n raised. You from New York?”

He looked at the man just to see a ghost of a smile flicker on his face. “A long time ago.”

Spot just nodded. He really didn’t have anything else to say. He missed his home, but New York hadn’t been his home for a long time.

“What’s it like, back there. I ain’t been back in years. I, uh, left when I was just a teen. But New York never leaves you, even if you leave it.”

Spot shrugged, taking a drink. “Same it’s always been, I’s guess.”

“Y’ain’t very talkative, is you? That’s okay. I mean, hearing someone with the accent is great. I ain’t, well, I miss it is all.”

Spot didn’t want to raise to the bait, but he couldn’t help himself. “Why’d you leave then?”

A shrug from his neighbor. “Not really my choice. If you is from there, then you know how it is. New York’s not safe if you ain’t got a big strong door to lock it out.”

Those words were familiar, but Spot refused to let himself acknowledge it. “But why’d you never come back?”

Another shrug. “I dunno. I couldn’t at first, but then- I guess I was afraid. Afraid that I’d get back and I’d be like I was never there at all. I mean, the world kept spinning without me there. Guess I didn’t want to see that it didn’t really matter I wasn’t there anymore. It’s selfish I know.”

Spot shook his head. “Nah, I’s get it. Missin’ people is hard, but part of you can’t help but wonder.”

The man grinned, that ghost of a grin awaking a flicker of something inside Spot. “Exactly. Can’t help but wonder about those people, those possibilities. Especially now with going off to France- I wonder if it’s bad that I never went back. Never looked up what happened. But if I do and they’re dead- I don’t think I could handle it.”

“I couldn’t handle it,” Spot muttered under his breath.

The man frowned. “Pardon?”

Spot sighed. “It’s nothing.”

He went back to his beer, assuming that would be the end of it, but the other man wouldn’t let the conversation go. It was odd, but he just wasn’t quite sure what about it was even accurate.

The man seemed almost nervous as he danced around his words, but Spot didn’t know about what. This was one of the last times were they wouldn’t have to worry about the rest of this stuff, before everything else went down.

“I, uh, where’d ya work? Before all this?"

“Does it matter? I’s here now. And maybe that’s enough. And nothing else to show for it.”

That was more than Spot meant to say, but he found that he didn’t really mind it too much. It didn’t matter, in the grand scheme of things, because really, what else did he have to show for his life? Nothing. Nothing had seemed to matter, but now that he was facing his own mortality over in the war, he wasn’t sure what to think. Would there be anyone else to remember Race if he died? Spot hadn’t talked to any of the ‘Hattan boys since then. Would they remember little Racetrack Higgins and his strange yet caring relationship with Spot Conlon.

The man bit his lip, his hands shaking. “You’re right, you’re right. It doesn’t matter. I just- never mind.”

Spot shrugged again. The man was talkative. Sure, a lot were, but it didn’t help that this was one of the many things that hurt how much they reminded him of Race. That boy had never known when to shut up too. It had been annoying when he first got to know the boy, but when things changed, it was one of the many things about Race that Spot fell in love with.

“I guess I don’t want to know anyway. I left someone behind in New York, and if they aren’t okay, then I guess I don’t want to know what happened to them. Not that you’d know them. I know New York’s big. I just kind of hoped- never mind.”

Spot smiled darkly, a ghost of the one that he had in the times before. “I get it. I lost someone important to me.”

Maybe details were needed, if he wanted to bond or anything like that, but two fools commiserating in a bar before going off to fight the Germans wasn’t exactly present in the best of times. This man might be hurting too, but nothing was going to bring back Race, no matter what. Otherwise, he would have already tried.

“Yeah. But like, I hope he’s alive and happy but it would almost be worse if he was, you know? Like I didn’t even matter to him..”

The man trailed off upon realizing which pronouns he was using. Spot just nodded. “I get it. We were kids, and he’s probably dead. Part of me hopes he’s alive but if he was... then I don’t know what’d I’d do. I miss him.”

The man’s facial expression eased as Spot reaffirmed. It was fine. Neither of them were going to say anything about any of this stuff. It was odd, but this was just going to have to be enough.

Both of them, Spot and this man he didn’t even know the name of and yet somehow understood, couldn’t go back.

“I always thought I’d be invincible, ya know? I was what, sixteen or seventeen. And now, I’m in my thirties and still can’t get over my past.”

Spot jolted. That was almost identical to his story. Honestly, it was weird how much they had in common, how many little things Spot recognized. But he didn’t want to be optimistic. Breaking himself down wouldn’t be able to help himself now.

So instead, he gestured to the other man’s hands. “You smoke?”

He made a face, one Spot couldn’t even begin figuring out how to decipher. “Not anymore. Just happens sometimes. A reminder of my past, I guess. Back in New York, I used to all the time.”

Spot sighed. That was so much like his boy, the one that he had left behind. Spot had tried to pick up smoking in the months after the incident, as a reminder, but it just wasn’t his thing. The smell of cigar smoke still reminded him, smelling like home.

The man stood up. “Look, I’s probably’s taken enough of your time. It’s just nice to hear a piece of home every once in a while.”

Spot cleared his throat. Just because he could never get his happy ending didn’t mean this man didn’t deserve his chance. “If you can, you’s should go back. Ta New York. I’m sure that he’d be happy ta hear from yous, no matter what.”

The man snorted. “Waste of time, honestly. Thanks to fuckin’ newsies’ names, I ain’t even sure what his real name is.”

Spot froze.

His voice was unnaturally high pitched once he was able to find his words against. “Did you- did you say newsies?”

The man nodded, his eyebrows starting to knit together. “Yeah. I’s was a newsie, back whenever. Why?”

Spot couldn’t speak anymore. He could hardly move. Could this... what?

He had thought hope had abandoned him long ago, but clearly that wasn’t the case.

He couldn’t talk, so instead, Spot pulled the chain out that was tucked into his shirt- not the one with his dogtags on it. The other one, with a cruxifix that didn’t belong to him.

The man froze as he stared transfixed at the small silver cross, before snapping his eyes back up to meet Spot’s. “Spot...” he breathed out, and that was all it took.

Spot launched himself off the bar stool at Race, hugging him tight, burying his head in the other man’s shoulders. It was different than it had been half a lifetime ago, but it was so familiar at the same time. Race squeezed him back. Spot could feel his eyes started to go damp, but he ignored it. Spot Conlon didn’t cry. Not even today.

He didn’t know where Racer had been for the past half-lifetime. He didn’t know what would happen next. But right now, seeing Racer again, holding Racer in his arms, unsure if he’d ever let go of the other again, that was more than he had ever imagined.

What happened next was for the both of them, reunited at last.

**Author's Note:**

> I just couldn't leave that ending on the other one-shot alone and I've really been wanting to write a Newsies World War I fic for a while so here is this. Not as sad as the last one but not exactly happy either. Honestly, this is incredibly self-indulgent and niche but I figured someone besides me might want this.


End file.
